Of Mexican Marigolds and Perfecting the Art of Mourning
Sometimes, while I’m cleaning my desk and organizing the piles of unfolded clothes that litter my rug, I like to plop myself down in the center of my college bedroom and just think. That’s where I found myself today, surrounded by a mess of pillows and rejected outfits, sitting on the cold linoleum floor of my apartment. An old Joan Sebastian song plays quietly from my phone, a vent in the far corner hums with the sound of the heater, and I breathe.